With Elijah, she wanted him, all of him, nothing less, and nobody else would scratch the itch that had started years ago in Antoine’s drawing classes. She wanted intimate knowledge of his body, his art, his mind, his everything.
Though she could allow none of her desire to show, not before the rest of the household.
“Good morning, my lady.” Elijah rose as Jenny entered the breakfast parlor, his expression genial, his eyes… watchful.
As badly as she itched to be erotically intimate with him, she itched to capture those eyes on canvas too. Itched, longed, desired… She was becoming a different woman, a more interesting woman altogether.
A woman who could carry off living in Paris, with or without her family’s blessing. The notion stunned her, like strong summer sunlight stunned senses left too long in shadows. Joy and anxiety filled her in equal measure, her soul teetering between “Don’t be ridiculous” and “If I don’t at least try, I will regret it for the rest of my sweet-natured-maiden-aunt life.”
Neither Victor nor Bart would have discouraged her from trying, and that insight freed her from a good portion of her doubts.
“Good morning, Mr. Harrison. Is Jock your only company this morning?”
Rothgreb’s old hound dozed by the fire, the beast likely craving warmth even more than he longed for a snitch of bacon.
“He’s agreeable company, if lacking in conversation. I trust you slept well?”
The watchfulness was still in Elijah’s gaze, and something else, something… fierce, and yet…
He was worried about her.
Outside, the day was dreary, a winter morning making little effort to shrug off a blanket of clouds. Inside Jenny’s heart, a rainbow sprang up, bright and warm. This was not Denby’s you’re-not-going-to-cry-on-me-are-you sort of male anxiety, which in truth had hidden the more genuine you’re-not-going-to-peach-on-me-are-you worry.
Thoughts of Paris fled as Jenny realized what she saw in Elijah’s eyes was caring.
“I slept wonderfully, Mr. Harrison, and now I am famished.” For the sight of him, for that slight easing behind his eyes when she turned a smile on him. The food she could take or leave.
“Allow me to fix you a plate.” He came around the parlor, stepped over the sleeping hound, and moved to the sideboard. “What would you like?”
He lifted the lids of the warming trays, served her eggs, bacon, toast, and some forced strawberries. He would have buttered her toast had they been guaranteed privacy, his solicitude putting Jenny in mind of her parents.
“Some tea, my lady?”
He’d know how she took her tea, just as His Grace knew exactly how Mama took hers. Jenny hazarded a guess that the tea the duke prepared for the duchess tasted better to her than those cups the duchess fixed for herself.
“I’m in more of a chocolate mood this morning,” Jenny replied. The words were no more out of her mouth than Elijah was swirling the little pot, this way then that, and pouring her a steaming cup.
His plate was empty, and the parlor was empty save for the old hound. As Jenny picked up her first forkful of eggs, she realized Mr. Elijah Harrison had been waiting for her.
The eggs were ambrosially seasoned, the chocolate rich, the butter on the toast superbly creamy.
“Have you any ideas for working with the children today?” Elijah asked. He poured himself another cup of tea, while Jenny wished she’d thought to offer him the pot.
She was being ridiculous, but as long as she didn’t act ridiculous, where was the harm?
“I’ll distract them while you sketch, if you like. Cards seemed to go over well.”
“Which suggests they’ll be bored with them today. Kit isn’t quite old enough to learn how to cheat.”
“I forget, you’re an older brother. I owe my older brothers an entire education that had nothing to do with deportment or elocution.”
He paused while stirring sugar into his tea. “Such as?”
“How to fend off a bully, where to apply perfume.” She’d also learned that she could trust her brothers to have her best interests at heart, even if they were complete dunderheads about it.
And she had learned that even her boisterous, indestructible brothers could die.
“They told you where to apply perfume?”
“Not willingly, of course. Little sisters eavesdrop and pick up on these things. Bartholomew remarked to Devlin that the nape of a certain chambermaid’s neck bore the scent of lavender water when he kissed her there. Bart sounded bemused to note it, as if the woman wore her scent that way exclusively to lure him closer.” Bartholomew had sounded besotted, but then he’d been besotted with life in all its fascinating details.
“God help me if my little sisters take their education from my brothers.”
Jenny put a strawberry on his otherwise empty plate and wondered where Sophie and Sindal had gotten off to. “Why not take their education from you?”
He sat back, as if something noxious had floated to the surface of his teacup. “Will the hound be as agreeable as your cat about sitting for a portrait?”
“Jock will bide anywhere there’s a decent fire, and he’s very patient with the children.”
“We’ll impress him into service then. I saw your sketches, by the way.”
Jenny was so busy studying the way the blue of the parlor’s wallpaper compared with the blue of Elijah’s waistcoat that she had to think before answering.
“Which sketches?”
He peered into his teacup, his expression disgruntled. “The ones you made of the children, the pastels. They’re brilliant.”
“Pastels can’t be brilliant.” And yet he’d sounded so puzzled by his own compliment, Jenny couldn’t help but be pleased. “I do enjoy children though, very much.”
He glanced up from his teacup, as if he’d heard the reservation in her tone. She enjoyed everybody else’s children, and that hurt like blazes.
A footman paused just inside the doorway. “Post for his lordship.”
Jenny didn’t think Sindal would appreciate his correspondence being left about for all to peruse. “Cornelius, the baron is likely—”
Elijah rose. “I believe Cornelius means me.” He retrieved a single epistle from the footman and resumed his place beside Jenny.
Jenny finished her eggs, toast, and chocolate, trying to decipher Elijah’s expression. He looked bemused now too, and the script on the letter was pretty.
A word came to Jenny’s mind, the perfect word for the feelings curdling the meal she’d just consumed: damn. Damn and blast. Elijah was handsome, charming, well liked, and never in want of commissions. Why shouldn’t some pretty widow correspond with him about a portrait of her children or about renewing her acquaintance with him over the holidays?
Damn and… damn. Double damn.
Seven
“It’s from my sister. My youngest sister.” Beside Jenny, Elijah popped a strawberry into his mouth and chewed mechanically.
A sister? Jenny had the sense he was liberally blessed with same. “Are you concerned for her?”
“Sarah has never written to me before. She’s the youngest by three minutes, though our mother claims they were a memorable three minutes.”
Sitting right there beside her, so close Jenny could catch a hint of his scent, he’d gone away to some familial place in his mind.
“Open the letter, Elijah,” Jenny said, passing him another strawberry.
He cast her one glance—a gentleman did not read correspondence at table—then slit the epistle with an unused knife.
If this sister called Elijah home before Jenny had pried from him just how those pastels merited the term “brilliant,” she’d hunt Lady Sarah down and ensure that a lump of coal for Christmas would be the least of the young woman’s problems.